I wake up without an alarm. I don't need one. My body just does it out of habit.
It's the same every morning — sunlight bleeding through the blinds, cutting across the dust floating in the air. My eyes sting when I open them. The first thing I see is the cracked paint on the ceiling. I stare at it for a while before I move.
My room smells like sweat, instant noodles, and the faint trace of mold from the window frame. I should clean it, but there's no point. I'll just end up here again tomorrow, the same as always.
The house is quiet. For a moment, I think maybe they've all gone out, but then I hear them downstairs — plates clattering, voices sharp and tired. My parents. They talk like people rehearsing lines for a show they don't want to be in. My sister's probably with them, pretending not to hear. She's good at pretending.
I lie there and listen.
"…still sleeping," my mother says, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Seventeen, and he does nothing."
"Don't talk so loud," my father mutters. "The neighbors might hear."
"He's a disgrace," she says. "We can't hide him forever."
My father sighs. "We don't have to hide him. Just keep him out of sight."
Then silence. Forks scraping plates. I don't need to hear the rest. I know how the conversation ends. It always ends the same — with my name spoken like a curse.
I sit up. The floor feels cold against my feet. I stare at the wall for a while before I move. There's a calendar hanging there, still open to May even though it's already August. I can't remember the last time I crossed off a day. Time stopped meaning anything after I dropped out.
I grab a hoodie from the chair and put it on. It smells faintly of smoke from when I tried to burn my school uniform months ago. The fire went out halfway through, like even the flames couldn't be bothered with me.
I open my laptop. The screen takes forever to load, the fan wheezing like an old man. I scroll through videos, forums, anything to fill the silence. People laughing, talking about exams, work, plans. All that noise feels like it's from another world — a world I don't belong to anymore.
There's a message board thread about people wanting to "start over somewhere else." Some joke about wanting to get isekai'd — hit by a truck, wake up in a world full of magic and adventure. It's a dumb idea. But for a moment, I find myself staring at the screen longer than I should.
Starting over.
A world where no one knows me.
No one expects anything.
No one hates me.
No one remembers.
It's stupid. But it sounds better than this.
The door opens without knocking. My mom steps in, holding a laundry basket. She doesn't look at me when she talks.
"You're up," she says flatly.
"Yeah."
"You should go outside today. Do something useful."
I nod, even though we both know I won't. She sighs and sets the basket down. "We can't keep this up forever, Ace. People are starting to ask questions."
She leaves before I can answer. The door stays half-open, like she doesn't care enough to close it all the way. I stare at the crack between the hinges for a while. The light from the hallway cuts across the floor like a scar.
I head outside around noon. The air feels heavy, humid. The sun's too bright, like the world's trying too hard to look alive. I keep my hands in my pockets and walk nowhere in particular.
The streets are filled with people — students in uniforms, old men sweeping in front of shops, mothers walking with their kids. Everyone moving, everyone doing something. I blend in like a shadow that doesn't belong to anyone.
A couple of my old classmates walk past. They don't see me. Or maybe they do and just pretend not to. Either way, I keep walking.
I end up near the overpass by the train station. There's a railing overlooking the road. Cars pass underneath — their engines roaring, their tires cutting through puddles. I lean on the rail and watch the traffic. The metal feels cold under my hands.
The thought creeps in again. Quiet, steady.
What if I just let go?
It's not the first time. It's not even shocking anymore. Just a whisper that's always there, somewhere in the back of my mind. I imagine the fall, the noise, the lights. The way it would all stop at once. Simple. Clean. Done.
But I don't move. I just keep watching. The cars look like small, bright animals racing toward nowhere.
After a while, I head home. My parents don't say anything when I walk through the door. My sister glances up from her phone, then looks away. Dinner's already over. They didn't wait for me. I eat leftovers cold from the fridge. The food tastes like nothing.
Later that night, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling again. The crack looks a little wider. Maybe the ceiling's tired of holding up too.
I close my eyes and try to remember the last time someone smiled at me. Not politely. Not because they had to. Just… smiled.
Nothing comes to mind.
I open my eyes. The room feels smaller now. The air's thick. I sit up and look out the window. It's raining — soft, steady. The kind of rain that doesn't stop, just lingers. I rest my head against the glass and watch the drops slide down like they're racing each other to the edge.
The street below glows with the reflection of headlights.
A truck passes by — big, loud, the sound echoing long after it's gone.
For a moment, I imagine stepping out into that light, feeling it swallow me whole.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn't scare me.